I slide a bubbling vegetable pizza from the brick oven, scenting the kitchen's warm air with garlic.

"Allyson?" Joleen, my newest employee, though she's worked here four years, steps up beside me. "There's a lady at the register who wants to say hello."

As Joleen hurries back to work, I set the pizza on the work counter and turn. My heart slides to my toes at the sight of a young woman up front with long auburn hair. But then I realize it isn't this woman Joleen speaks of, but my neighbor Mary Keller, the blonde beside her.

Mary waves and calls, "Hi!"

I smile, wave back, then breathe again. I've been seeing them everywhere today. On my early morning run before breakfast. In the car next to mine at a light on the way into work. On the sidewalk outside the café when I opened up. Girls and young women with red hair, skin as pale as milk. They're all ages. Gurgling toddlers, gangly, gaptoothed preteens, laughing college students, stressed-out mothers approaching middle age.

Why am I startled each time I catch that flash of color so like autumn leaves? These girls, these women, have stalked me before. Many times. But always, always, each year on this very date. Today of all days, I should expect them.

I've learned only one thing helps drive their image from my mind. Work.

Concentrate, Allyson.

On the aromas of yeast, onion and sweet red pepper, the clatter of pots and pans, the rise and fall of voices and laughter in the adjoining dining room.

Empty your mind.

Get caught up in the rhythm of chopping and spreading, of pouring and slicing.

Behind me, the café hums and buzzes. Today, like all Fridays at th